THE PLEA

I am looking up, my Lord. To you, I look up and down in humility. Here you are again. You are always here even when I am unaware. I am sorry for my sleep. I am sorry for my anger. I am sorry for my disillusionment. I am sorry for my disappointment. It is not due to a lack of want that I remain distant. It is just too painful to be near you.

Do I sound like a stupid child if I ask that you not abandon me? If I plead that you be patient and strong for me? Am I asking for too much? Do I sound like a hypocrite? To want you near but not too near? How will I learn to stand on my own two feet if you catch me every time I fall? And yet, how I will stand on my own two feet, if you never catch me? What kind of a message would that bring? You would never have me believe you do not care. Ah, I must be a fool to speak with you like this.

Let me feel this pain. This depth. This Love. Let it sink way down to the roots of my being so that it is able to rise up through my veins and back into my heart. I know it is the only way. I know this is what I asked for. I know that you will deliver. I know that it is done. I know that this is mine. I worked for it, even when I was unsure of the outcome. I know Beauty is to be found in the process, in the journey. I know that Joy is to be found through the embracing of Sorrow. Now I know what Kahlil Gibran meant. Now, I understand the bitter sweet taste of Truth.

How many times have I ended up in this very spot, suspended in the air, upside down? Too many to mention, my Lord. But I recall there was a time, even if I cannot place it, when I had asked for all of this. How is it that I am certain? I must have longed to want in a particular way, in a way that ensured I would never be fully satisfied. How else would I come to know the I that is me? You knew I would not settle for less. You knew how I wished for the Real and the only way it would reach me, was through this downward spiral, this pulling down, this sweet suffering. I think of Simone Weil. She was right too.

So much heaviness for such a small heart. But do not worry. My heart will expand to make room for more. It is what you meant when you said that I would see? Right? Let my cup overflow. Please. Until my tears become my strength, my refuge, my salvation. Until I become Love itself. Do not deny me. I can take it. And when you see that it is too much, do not interfere. I only ask that you have your hands ready, just in case.

Dreaming in Shades of Grey

I open my eyes and hear the words,
"Your stripes have been picked."

I fall back asleep an hour later.

He stands in front of the mirror.
I stand in front of his side - right profile.
He begins to speak.
The sounds of the words are too thick to make out, too slow.
Then, like waves rippling in water, I hear him say,
"There has been a disturbance in the field."
He looks over and right at me.
His eyes are glossy.
He smiles but it is deceiving. He is heavy.
To the left there is a bed covered in a white embroidered spread and to its right, a small window, with a sheer white curtain.
I can see the window reflected in the mirror and the bright light shining through.
The room is shades of grey.
The wooden floor, which used to be laminated, has been stripped over time from the wear and tear of life.
He speaks again.
I smile pretending to have heard him.
But I catch a glimpse of my machine and am appalled and so I speak the truth and say, "I can't hear you."
He speaks again.
I struggle to hear. I move forward, adjust the position of my head but still I cannot hear him.
Then the screen of this dream, focuses in and out, like pixels in a photo, expanding and contracting.
I hear him say, "Did you know that I have to work twice as hard to reach that place....?"
I feel a dampness and a heaviness in my chest.
There is a deep sorrow here in this space, this place.
It is his sorrow reflected in the room. It runs deep. I am sure of it.
He speaks again.
I place my right hand on the black dresser we are both standing in front of.
I can feel the texture of the wood under my fingers.
I don't know what to do.
I sense hesitation in my left arm.
I want to place it on his right arm to console, to consider, to empathize?
But he jerks, almost in anger.
He speaks some more.
He is wearing a black hat and suit, with a white shirt.
I can see clearly the clothing, the intricate detail of the material.
I can sense the texture of it even though I do not touch it.
I am aware of my skin, of my own presence here, knowing full well my body is asleep in bed.
He has something in his hands, like he's applying something to his face...powder?
Then I feel the rippling effect of the screen again.
I look to my right and see his reflection in the mirror and focus my eyes back to him.
But now there are three of us.
There is an older woman standing between us.
I get scared. I am aware that she is not of the living and belongs to another plane. I sense that I know her or maybe he knows her? I cannot see her face.
I feel my head go numb.
This should have been enough to wake me up but no.
I fall to the floor and like a ball, roll, as if down a hill.
Everything is moving fast.
I place my hands over my ears.
I am aware of a slant in the floor, a slight indentation against my stomach and hips.
I look up. He is still standing in front of the mirror, his mouth still moving, his back to me.
And the lady is looking at herself in the mirror, her face drawn closer to it so she can see better.
She is wearing a white dress or a gown, tied at the waist, barefoot, hair in a bun.
He does not turn to see me on the floor.
He does not turn to the woman who is standing next to him, either.

The Hypocrisy of Life & Love

I wait at the back of the line with my empty cup in hand. They wait at the front of the line, but their cups are not empty. I do not even move my head from side to side to look how much longer I must wait. You see that I am patient. You see that I do not complain. You see that I am responsible. You see that I am obedient. You see that I respect. You see that I give. You see that I love. And yet you leave me here waiting at the back of the line. For days I have been waiting and you do not come. Why do you not come? Why does this line only get longer? Am I unworthy? What must I do to make me less unworthy in your eyes? You who sees all things. 

 They laugh and they smile. They smile at themselves and laugh at you. When their cups are filled and they see that they are overflowing, they laugh a little more because they're stupid and did not realize they could have quenched their thirst only a moment ago. But they are not thirsty, are they? They obey well, and out of fear. They say all the right things, withhold at the right or is it the wrong time? You keep them happy and adorned. Your favourite ones. The ones who will bring light and manifestation to your vision? They would not dare, though, would they, to take their hair to wipe down your feet? They would not bow to you out of love. They will not stay a night to sit in silence alone with you. They will not wipe down the walls of your heart or sweep the floors of your mind, not even if you asked them. Because they cannot, for they do not understand. 

I have cooked meals for you a hundred times, washed your aching feet, massaged the temples of your past, stared at your hands, at those beautiful hands. And you know I will continue to do all of these things. I sit next to you eagerly and with great joy because you are here and I am here and all is right. And from these real moments, I am pulled back into reality, into this line, where I wait because here we are all winners and all losers, all beautiful and all ugly, where our actions do not dictate what we shall get or what we deserve, where I must swallow hard the disappointment of what is and what will never be. 

 In this cup I carry, there is some water but I do not drink from it, just yet, for fear that I will not make it to the front of the line in time for you to receive me, in time for you to find me worthy. You wish for me to transform this pain, this loneliness, abandonment? So I look down, my lips and mouth dry, and tell myself to hold on for a short while longer. If I drink from this cup now, then what? I will have no more reserves. My cup will become my cross and I cannot have that. 

I will have to walk away and towards the well of my heart. Here, what you give will be enough, more than enough, eternally. But I am not you. I will not turn the other cheek. Why must you always make me better, shinier, more resilient? Why can I not be like the others? Easily amused. And me? I am too easily appeased. I'd rather my cup be empty then. At least, I would have some integrity. You nod your head in agreement. And you know this only makes me sadder. You and I both know I have everything. I lack nothing. Yet, I don't care to be a ruby. In this space between worlds, why can't the real spill over with some kind of permanence, continuity, purpose, love? Why must I find you here and not there? How can I find you in both places so that I do not feel your absence so greatly, taste the hypocrisy of this life so deeply?